Dream Date
by SeveRemus
Summary: At the end of episode 1.18 "Identity Crisis," Tara is arrested around 22:08 but Reese doesn't bring Finch back to the library until 00:58. What did they DO for three hours? Fluffy Rinch slash, of course!
1. Chapter 1

Dream Date

* * *

><p>At the end of episode 1.18 "Identity Crisis," Tara is arrested around 22:08 but Reese doesn't bring Finch back to the library until 00:58. What did they DO for three hours? Fluffy Rinch slash, of course!<p>

* * *

><p>Reese approached Fusco's squad car warily since it was parked right under a street light, making it easy to see Finch typing away on a laptop, presumably the detective's. He rapped on the window with his knuckles, hoping he wouldn't startle Finch. The older man glanced up and beamed at him through the glass.<p>

"Johhhn! I've _missed_ you!" Finch cried as he fumbled with the door handle. Reese opened it for him and helped him out, but was startled when Finch threw his arms around him in an exuberant hug. Frozen in place, Reese's arms were suspended in mid-air on either side of his partner. His first instinct – the result of years of training – had been to push the other man away, but in the split second before he acted upon that response, he had realized that of all the eight million inhabitants of New York, Finch was the last person who would ever harm him. Physically, at least.

"Oh, John... I'm _so_ glad to see you." Finch's muffled voice was filtered through Reese's overcoat. The former operative swallowed and deliberately wrapped his arms around the smaller man's back.

"I'm glad to see you, too," he responded, hoping that there were no security cameras trained on them.

"Mmm," Finch moaned, shifting against his chest. "You smell _good_, John..."

Reese's jaw hung down uselessly for a moment before he answered. "I... I do?"

"Mmm-hmm... What kind of cologne are you wearing?"

"Nothing. It must be the soap. Just whatever the hotel has..."

"I _like_ it," Finch drawled, taking another deep breath with his nose pressed against Reese's bare chest. "Did you know, perfumes smell different depending on who's wearing them? They react with each person's body chemistry... and your body chemistry smells... _yummy_..."

His mind reeling at Finch's words, Reese was a little slow in reacting to Finch's fingers, which were scrabbling to unbutton his shirt.

"Finch... Harold, let's get you back to the library, okay?" he said, prying Finch's hands away.

"Okay..."

Docile as a lamb, Finch allowed Reese to lead him down the sidewalk.

"Did Fusco take good care of you?"

"Oh, _yeah!_ He was so nice – he let me turn on the sirens, and they went _wooo_..." Finch said delightedly. "He was so nice to me, I decided to give him a raise."

"A raise?" Reese echoed in alarm.

"Uh-huh. I hacked into the NYPD's payroll account," he told him, unconcerned. "It's sad, really, what they pay our law enforcement officers..."

"Finch, did you do that with _his_ computer?" Reese demanded. "You could get him in a lot of trouble if they trace it back—"

"Ohhh, don't be _silly!_" Finch replied. "They'll _never_ trace it back to his laptop! I routed it through India, Algeria, Egypt, and Pakistan, and then... I think it was Norway and _then_ Japan. Besides, they probably won't even _notice_ the change."

"I sure hope you're right," Reese muttered under his breath.

"Wanna know what else I was doing until you came?" Finch asked with a conspiratorial smile that did nothing to ease Reese's nerves.

"What were you doing?"

"I got into the phone company's database and switched all the numbers for the New York taxi companies." Finch laughed so hard that he had to stop walking, and doubled over to slap his good knee. "It'll take them _days_ to sort it all out!" he gasped. "And there's no way... they can explain it away as 'technical difficulties,' because... if it were just a _random_ malfunction, it would have mixed up a bunch of _different_ businesses, right?" He wheezed as tears leaked out from the corners of his eyes.

"Are you sure they won't be able to trace _that_ back to Fusco's laptop, either?" Reese asked, genuine concern turning his expression somber.

"Of _course_ not! I'm not an _amateur_ at this, y'know – not some teenage _kid_," Finch giggled, grabbing Reese's lapels and tugging on them for emphasis. "Awww... don't look so _worried_, John! I could hack into that system in my _sleep_. Now, the Pentagon... _that_ would take some better equipment, of course – the detective's department-issue laptop really wouldn't cut it. Although I wanted to give it a try, but Mr. Fusco chickened out. Maybe some other time, I'll show him how it's done..."

"I'm sure you will," Reese soothed, turning him around to get him walking again. Finch complied, but only after latching on to his taller companion's arm.

"Where are we going? Are we going to catch some bad guys?" Finch babbled. "Y'know, we're a great team... just like Batman and Robin. You can be Batman 'cuz you're taller." The beautiful, carefree smile on Finch's face made Reese's expression soften somewhat as well.

"Thanks. And you can be Robin because that's a bird name, too," Reese pointed out.

"**OH!**" Finch cried out suddenly. "You're _right!_ I never thought of that... what a _perfect_ name!" Grinning in beatific satisfaction, Finch clutched Reese's arm even tighter. "I'll be Harold Robinson. Or Robin Haroldson. And we can get matching costumes for Halloween... with _capes_, so we can fly!"

"That's a great plan, Harold," Reese said, humoring him. They were finally approaching his car. "Just don't go jumping off of tall buildings without me, okay?"

"Okaaay," Finch drawled happily.

Reese managed to get him into the car, then headed for the library. He was mostly ignoring Finch's prattle – which consisted of a running commentary on whatever caught his eye on the street, his train of thought often interrupted by and abandoned in favor of the next fascinating thing – until Finch suddenly cried out at a particular intersection.

"**STOP!** I have to get out! It's in _there!_" he shouted incoherently.

"What? _What's_ in _where?_" Reese asked, startled.

"My **BOOK!** The one I saw with _Jordan!_ It's a first edition – I _have_ to _have_ it!"

Reese rubbed his furrowed brow. "Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"But it might not _be_ there tomorrow! Someone else might buy it," Finch whined. "_Pleeease?_ I have my own money. _Pleeease_ can we stop and get it?"

The car behind them honked, letting them know that the light had changed. With a feeling of dread that he was probably going to regret this decision, tempered by some resignation and justification (Finch _was_ his boss, after all), Reese turned at the corner and found a space not too far down the street. He had barely parked when Finch unbuckled his seatbelt and managed to get out, hobbling single-mindedly down the sidewalk and mumbling as he went.

"It's that store, right there," he panted. "I hope they didn't sell it yet... I wanted to get it when I saw it first, but Jordan started talking to me and I had to go find her. Ohhh, I hope it's still there..."

Reese remembered the conversation he had overhead through their cell phone connection, and was slightly embarrassed at how quickly he had jumped in to distract Finch from talking to the "asset." His gut reaction – that she had "made" Finch tailing her and was checking him out – had been proven accurate, but Reese was honest enough with himself to admit that there had been more than a modicum of jealousy in his motives, right from the moment Finch had first called her "Jordan" rather than "Hester."

Watching Finch now, however, as he made top speed (for him) down the sidewalk in his quest for a book, Reese couldn't help the self-deprecating smirk that twisted his lips. Finch had been blinded by Tara – deceived into believing that she was a nice, well-read, harmless woman – because she had shown an interest in the same book that had caught his eye. She must have noticed how intense his interest was, and had followed up her initial act by saying that she loved "old things, especially books" when he had taken her to that hotel restaurant for afternoon tea. Like any good con artist, she had read her mark well, and he had swallowed her lure – hook, line, and sinker...

At least she would be behind bars for a good long time now, Reese thought with satisfaction, remembering also the sincere look of relief and gratitude on the genuine Jordan Hester's face. And the only reason Finch had been... _interested_ in her, was because she had pretended to like books. Reese chided himself for having misread the situation entirely.

Finch entered the store just ahead of Reese, snapping him back to the present. He hoped, for Finch's sake as well as his own, that the book he so desperately wanted was still available.

Fortunately, the bookstore was one of many in the city open twenty-four hours a day, or it would have been closed at this late hour. The clientele now consisted of grungy artists and a few punk poets out to find inspiration by thumbing through old tomes without having to pay for them. Even the store clerk was a young man with dyed black hair and several piercings through his lips and tongue, who looked up in subdued amazement to see the two older men in suits. However, Finch did not notice him as he made a beeline to the back of the store.

"It's **HERE!** It's **HERE!**" he shrieked with unfeigned joy, grabbing the copy of Franz Kafka's "The Trial" and holding it aloft for Reese to see. "It was waiting for me, right _here!_ Oh, I'm _so_ glad it wasn't bought by somebody else already... It's a first edition, in _very nice_ condition, too..."

Reese felt a hollow sort of ache in his chest as he saw Finch lovingly handle the old, brittle dust jacket. All of the young customers in the store had craned their necks to see what the commotion was about, and were now staring openly at Finch as he bounced up and down on his knees like a young child overexcited about a new toy.

"I'm glad you found it, Harold... Let's go pay that nice young man for it, shall we?" Reese coaxed.

"Okaaay," Finch answered, still beaming and with a slight bounce to his steps. "And then I can take it home and read it. Or _you_ can read it to me, like a bedtime story!"

"Uh... yes, of course," Reese mumbled, his cheeks flushing. He could hear the other customers snickering, but Finch had already turned his attention to the clerk.

"How much do you want for this _lovely_ copy of a dystopian classic? Name your price – money is no object!" he crowed triumphantly.

"The price is inside the front flap," the young man replied, unimpressed. "It's $2,950 plus tax."

While the clerk processed his credit card, Finch cradled the book gently against his chest and continued to bounce around, dancing to some unheard melody in his mind. Reese could only watch helplessly, although he did notice a young man (also with multiple piercings in his ears, nose, and lips) who approached his ecstatic partner with purpose.

"Hey, dude – what so good about that book?" he asked, pointing at the object with a many-ringed finger.

"What's good? You mean apart from its near-pristine condition, and the fact that it's one of only six hundred copies printed in America?" Finch asked in return, his mood undampened by the question.

"Yeah."

"It's one of Kafka's greatest, most satirical works – an outcry against the corruption and senselessness of the Law," Finch told him with great enthusiasm. "This man is dragged off to court to stand trial, but he's never told what the charges against him are; he finds out that the court officials are corrupt, and that it doesn't matter if you're innocent or guilty – what counts is who you know and how much influence they have; and the whole process is a farce, but such a horrifying procedure that the man grows more and more disillusioned with the human race, and with the government in particular. You could easily draw parallels to our _own_ times and the flawed judicial system with which _we_ have to cope!"

The young man had listened to Finch's discourse with an intensity that Reese found unnerving, but he did not seem to be threatening the older man in any way.

"That's like... totally awesome," he breathed, "but I ain't got three grand to spend on one book."

"I'm sure you could find a more affordable version," Finch began, and the clerk chimed in, "There's one on the used book cart for two bucks."

"Awesome," the young man responded, "but does it have all the pages?"

"Yeah," the clerk assured him, and Finch added, "Just because there's a disparity in the price doesn't mean that the contents of the books are different. They may be different translations, but the essential story should be the same. I highly recommend it... although, to be honest, rambling discourses on governmental dysfunction is sort of my 'thang'..."

The knowing smirk that Finch shot the young man was lost on him, but Reese's lips twitched at his partner's attempt to mimic the street vernacular. Thankfully, the other customers seemed to have lost interest in the strange (and presumably drunk) older man's rather lengthy summary, so Reese was able to guide him out of the store without calling any more attention to themselves.


	2. Chapter 2

Dream Date

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><p>On their way back to the car they passed a greasy burger joint, which reminded Reese that he had not eaten anything since lunch at the bar where Jordan Hester worked.<p>

"Finch, I don't suppose you've had any supper, have you?" he asked as he guided the other man around a telephone pole.

"What? No... Jordan made me a flambé, but Detective Fusco stopped it before it finished cooking. It was sooo pretty... it _sparkled_ in the microwave!"

Feeling a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature, Reese helped Finch into the car and buckled his seatbelt for him.

"I know you wanted Indian for lunch," Reese mentioned, half to himself, "but I hope you don't mind if we go somewhere... less exotic, for now."

"Okay," Finch said amiably, looking at his book again before hugging it.

Reese drove to a bar that he had checked out several weeks earlier when he had been staying at a nearby hotel. It had a jukebox blaring most of the time, but he hoped that the noise would cover any incriminating or identifying statements which Finch might make in his altered state of mind. Settling him in a dim booth in the corner was relatively easy; getting him to decide what he wanted to eat was another matter.

"I'm not hungry," Finch protested, turning to look at everything but the menu in front of him. "This place is cool... Do you come here often?"

"Finch, I need you to focus for just one second," Reese tried again, having to raise his voice to be heard over the ambient sound level. "You _have_ to eat _some_thing. What about a salad? A nice garden salad with a grilled chicken breast... Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Yeah," was the spaced-out answer. "Wow, that guy can really play the harmonica!" Finch then remarked, referring to the country song being played at the moment.

Giving up, Reese ordered the grilled chicken salad with water for both of them, hoping to flush the chemicals out of Finch's body. He also knew that he could not afford to drink even a beer – he had to be on his toes until he could get Finch back to the safety of the library.

Finch took a sip of the water at Reese's insistence, then began to blow into his straw to make bubbles in the bottom of his glass, giggling hysterically at Reese's expression. Before the food was brought out, he escaped out of the booth and shuffled over to the jukebox, leaving his coat and precious book on the bench seat. Reese followed with a heavy sigh.

"Look, John! So many songs... I don't know any of them," Finch said, pressing his nose against the glass. "Which one do you want?"

"Harold, come on – I'm sure our food will be ready soon," Reese replied, trying gently but firmly to turn him away from the colorfully lit-up machine.

"But I'm not hungry!" Finch wailed. "I don't _wanna_ eat! I wanna _dance_..."

Turning to face Reese, Finch slipped his hands under the taller man's suit jacket and around his back, burying his face against Reese's throat. Reese froze, exasperated, as he felt Finch swaying in time to the music and trying to pull him along. The temptation to knock his partner/employer out cold and haul him home over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes became more powerful than ever before, but Reese held himself in check. Barely.

"C'mon, John," Finch wheedled, "dance with me!"

"I _can't_, Harold," he responded, gritting his teeth to keep from shouting. "I'm no good at it – Stanton gave up on me after a few tries. Besides, our dinner is coming soon, and you really, _really_ need to eat something."

"Awww..."

The dejected look on Finch's downcast face as he pulled away, biting his lip but still swaying, oddly made Reese regret his words. A glance back at their table revealed that their food had not yet come out, so with another hefty sigh, Reese grabbed Finch's shoulders and peered into his face.

"If I dance one song with you, will you promise to eat your dinner?" he asked, his eyes dead serious.

"Really? Yeah!" Finch agreed, lighting up with such a brilliant smile that Reese couldn't help but smile back.

"All right, then... let's see what songs are coming up." Reese turned to read the queue. "We're in luck – I actually know the next one."

"Oh, goody!" Finch said with unfeigned (if chemically-induced) elation, then plastered himself against his partner again.

Reese felt a flush working its way up his face, but resigned himself to circumstances that could only be considered a whim of Fate. Placing his arms around Finch and trying to ignore the looks that they were getting from some of the other customers, Reese did his level best to move his feet in time to the beat.

"On my first tour after 9-11," he began, partly to distract himself, "one of the guys in my unit had the Toby Keith album with the song 'The Angry American' on it. He played that CD over and over until everyone knew all the songs by heart. This was one of them."

"That's nice..." Finch replied from his shoulder, his features softened by a dreamy haze. "What's it called?"

"'It's All Good,'" Reese told him.

"Yeah... It's even _better_ than good," Finch affirmed, closing his eyes. "I could just... dance the night away... just like this..."

Feeling the other man totally relaxed in his arms – so trusting and _un_-paranoid – made Reese swallow hard to get rid of a lump in his throat.

_If only he would trust me so much without being drugged out of his mind_, he thought ruefully. By morning, he knew (or hoped) that Finch would be back to his old self, as wary and cautious as ever – perhaps even more so after this experience. But envisioning how horrified Finch would be to find out just how far gone he had been while under the influence, as well as the backlash in the form of his even further retreat into his shell of privacy, Reese wished that there could be a happy medium – that his partner could be kept mildly medicated to regulate his paranoia (without completely losing touch with reality) so that he would trust Reese enough to talk with him. _Really_ talk.

Reese didn't need to know any more facts about the secretive man; he understood the person behind the mask of "Harold Finch" well enough by now. That man was generous, compassionate, and loyal to a fault. Despite having withdrawn from almost all society, he had proven himself capable of developing a deep bond with someone he could have easily left in the gutters where he had found him – where Reese had gone by his own choice. But Finch hadn't. He had seen something in him, even when Reese had given up on himself, and had plunged headlong into a dangerous situation just to rescue him. Reese had been in dire straits often enough before, and he knew exactly how much he could trust the other men of his unit. But Finch had done something that even his fellow Rangers – the elite of the U.S. military – had not.

"I guess there's not much left to talk about, anyway," Reese muttered to himself, still holding Finch in his arms and dancing (or doing his best impression thereof).

"What did you want to talk about?" Finch asked, startling him.

"Oh... nothing. It's too loud in here to talk, anyway."

"Okay."

When the song ended, it was with relief and – Reese had to admit – a twinge of regret that he led Finch back to their booth, where their salads were waiting for them.

"I know you're not hungry, but you _promised_," Reese reminded Finch. "At least eat some of your chicken – you need the protein."

"Ohhh... all right. But only because you asked _nicely_," he answered with a slight pout before taking a bite and chewing it.

It struck Reese in that moment that looking after a Finch high on Extasy was very much like having a small child.

_So I got my wish for a child, after all_, he thought, smirking to himself at the irony. _Just not how I'd pictured it..._

When he had gotten Finch to eat as much as he could, he paid the waitress and helped Finch put on his coat again.

"Where're we going?" Finch asked, picking up his book.

"Somewhere safe," was all Reese answered, not wanting to mention the library in case there were prying ears.

"Can we go to a real disco?" Finch piped up hopefully. "I wanna dance to some songs that _I_ know."

"Maybe some other time," Reese said, hoping to put him off; however, like a small child fixated on something, Finch was not about to give up.

"_Pleeease_, John? I haven't gone dancing in, like, _foreeever!_"

Reese continued to guide him towards the car. "It's late, Harold. You need to get some rest."

"But I'm not _tired_. I wanna go _dancing!_"

Drawing a deep breath, Reese counted to ten while Finch bobbed up and down on his knees in anticipation of a more favorable answer, apparently keeping time to some tune playing in his head.

"All right. I don't know any discos – they don't have a lot of those around anymore – but I can take you to a club where... well, where we won't stick out so much."

"Aww, yay! You're the bestest _ever_," Finch beamed.

Helplessly committed now, Reese drove to a club known for its gay clientele. He had not been inside it before, which made him leery – he liked to scope out an establishment first to know all of its exits in case he needed to make a quick getaway – but it was one of only two gay clubs that he knew of in the city, and the less seedy of the two. Stifling yet another sigh, he parked and plastered a grin on his face. Finch, of course, was already grinning from ear to ear. It was a weeknight, so they were able to get in right away.

Inside, the music was even louder than the bar they had just left, with a driving techno beat that assaulted the senses from the lower ranges of sound. Finch was mesmerized by the flashes of light scattered round by the mirror ball, pleased to see others dancing as enthusiastically as himself.

"Wow... Wow... It's a real _disco!_" he cried in delight.

"Yeah, pretty much. Come on, Harold – let's find a table..."

Reese helped Finch out of his coat yet again, although this time he wanted to remove his suit jacket as well. A smartly dressed host smiled at them and asked if they wanted anything to drink, but Reese only ordered Perrier. "He's had a few too many already," he explained, indicating Finch.

"Only _one_ drink! One teensy, weensy, _tiny_ little drink," Finch protested, but the host had already left for the bar. "Oh, look! They're having tequila. That looks like _fun!_"

Following his gaze, Reese found a group of young men in a booth with shot glasses and lime wedges; however, he was shocked to see that one of them had stripped out of his shirt and was lying on the table, allowing the others to lick the salt off of his chest.

"Can I try that?" Finch asked, standing up and ready to join the other group.

"Finch! You don't know that guy," Reese said, grabbing his sleeve and desperately hoping that he would listen to reason. "There's no telling what sort of... of _germs_ he might have!"

Thankfully, his warning worked. "You're right," Finch agreed, sitting back down beside him. "Even though salt _is_ a natural disinfectant, it wouldn't be safe to go licking someone you don't know... And besides, he might not taste all that good, anyway. But I bet you'd taste good... I bet... you'd be really... _yummy_..."

Finch was all but drooling as he made his remark, staring at the triangle of exposed skin below Reese's neck. He leaned in as though to take another sniff of Reese's "yummy" scent, which Reese prevented by shifting further back into the booth. He was trapped, though, and both of them knew it.

"Don't be shy... I won't bite," Finch drawled, scooting closer to Reese. "I just... like how you smell... Are you _sure_ you aren't wearing any cologne?"

"_Positive_," Reese responded, feeling a mild case of panic building within his chest. "The only aftershave I use is rubbing alcohol."

"Well, it works wonders for you, then," Finch murmured, finally getting close enough to bury his nose between Reese's open collar. "It smells... _**won**__derful!_"

Reese closed his eyes for a moment as Finch sniffed so hard that he could feel the rush of air across his skin. Opening them again to scan the club, Reese realized there were other couples in far more intimate and revealing poses, so he drew in a few deep breaths himself to calm down. Finch's nose was pressed against him, but it wasn't physically uncomfortable; and since they were blending in as well as anybody else, he decided not to object to Finch's strange obsession with his scent.

The host brought their Perrier, which Reese gulped down desperately. Finch glanced around the room at all the dancing and gyrating bodies (most of them in their twenties and thirties) before returning his attention to his drink, only to be distracted by the salt shaker on the table.

"Oh, look... _salt_," he stated, his eyes open wide with innocent wonder. Reese face-palmed, knowing what was on the other man's mind – in fact it was impossible to miss, since Finch was staring at his chest again.

_If it keeps him happy, and means I don't have to dance_... he considered, already getting a headache from the riotous music. He felt cornered, in every sense of the word, but when a quick survey of the club showed that most of the cameras were trained on the cash registers and exits, he pursed his lips and made up his mind.

"Harold... would you like to... try what they're doing," with a nod indicating the men with the tequila, "on... on me?"

"Oh, _may_ I?" Finch responded, his eyes shining with pure, unadulterated joy. "You really _mean_ it?"

Swallowing hard, already regretting his decision, Reese leaned back against the wall of the booth. Finch needed no more encouragement than that. Soon his fingers were unbuttoning Reese's shirt, exposing more of the taut skin beneath (tense at the realization of what was about to happen), while his tongue stuck out from his lips in intense concentration. Before Reese was ready for it – if he ever could have been, anyhow – Finch leaned in and trailed his hot, wet tongue in a wide swath up the centerline of his chest. The unusual sensation sent shivers up and down Reese's spine – and, to his surprise and dismay, his body responded to the stimulus.

"Mmmmm..." Finch moaned with his mouth open, his tongue still touching Reese's skin. He looked up at him with dreamy eyes and a happy smile. "You _**do**_ taste good! Even without the salt."

Having reminded himself of the salt, Finch began to shake some onto the moistened strip of his partner's skin, while Reese leaned back and stared at the ceiling of the club.

_Well, I suppose it's not _that _surprising... I haven't been with anyone in so long, after all..._ he acknowledged through the dull roar of the storm in his brain. _I just hope he doesn't want to do anything more... intimate... _

What Finch wanted to do, at the moment, was lick the sprinkled salt off of Reese, then salt him again and repeat the process. The patch of damp skin grew as he pulled Reese's shirt further open. If he were having a reaction in his nether regions like Reese was, he did not give any indication of it, since he was engrossed in his new-found activity. Reese's hands were balled into fists as he withstood the onslaught of that warm, wet, and dexterous muscle. There was now a noticeable bulge in his trousers.

When Finch tugged at one side of his shirt and untucked it completely, Reese opened his eyes to protest, but the next instant Finch's mouth had closed on the nipple on that side, causing Reese to yelp. It wasn't a loud yelp, so none of the other customers noticed, but it was enough to make Finch cease what he was doing.

"I'm sorry... Did I hurt you?" he asked, still wide-eyed and with an enigmatic curve to his lips.

"No... you didn't hurt me," Reese gasped, "but Harold... didn't you want to dance?"

"Dance? Yeah, I _love_ to dance!" he said, nodding in agreement. "They have a dance floor and _every_thing!"

And so Reese found himself adjusting his clothing while Finch tottered ahead of him onto the dance floor, finding his own rhythm as he bobbed and swayed, looking for all the world like the gopher from "Caddy Shack." Once his chest was covered again, Reese took a moment to catch his breath, and watched Finch having a good time, smiling at the other dancers and moving to the music.

_My Finch. Mine. _

The thought rose, unbidden, in Reese's mind. Yes, Finch looked ridiculous out there. Yes, it was only because of the drug in his system that he had cut loose and was cutting a caper. And yes, at times he could become a liability in their operations.

_But he's still __**mine**_, Reese realized with a possessive ferocity that amazed him. _He's __**my**__ partner. __**My**__ Finch. __**My**__ Harold..._

A self-deprecating smirk twisting his lips, Reese left the booth to join Finch on the dance floor. It was another hour before he could persuade him to leave the club, exhausted but having had the time of his life.

"We _have_ to do that again," Finch told Reese as they walked (or stumbled, in Finch's case) back to the car.

"If you remember what all we did tonight, and still want to come back," Reese replied with a knowing grin, "I won't object."

"Okay," Finch smiled sleepily up at Reese before he closed the door.

* * *

><p>AN: The End

Or, to be continued in "Goodnight, Harold." Only in that one, Reese goes out to eat again, so it doesn't make much sense... :p


End file.
